He stepped inside the elevator, his focus fastened to the floor as the doors closed.
Then he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
After Hudson left, I cried so long and so hard that it seemed like I should have passed out from exhaustion. But I didn’t. I tried curling up in bed, but it felt too big. And no matter how many blankets I had, I felt cold. Eventually, I wandered out to the library where I had a few more shots of tequila to warm up and turned on a movie from my AFI’s Greatest Films collection. I chose Titanic. I was already heartbroken, after all—might as well wallow in it.
Sometime before the ship sunk, I passed out on the couch. I woke the next day with swollen eyes and a splitting headache. My first thought was that I needed caffeine. But there was no smell of brewing coffee in the penthouse, and that’s when I remembered that Hudson wasn’t there. Every day before he left for work, he set the Keurig to brew for me. This simple missing gesture threatened to start a new round of tears.
But maybe he’d called.
I fumbled around for my phone and found it buried in the cushions. Fuck. It was dead. I’d been too consumed with grief to charge it for the night. After setting it up at the library charging station, I made my own coffee and found some Ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet.
I showered then, hoping the warm water would relieve the swelling of my eyes. Perhaps it did, but I didn’t feel any better. Afterward, I stood with a towel wrapped around myself and stared into the steam-clouded mirror. This was what it was like to see Hudson now—through this fog, knowing that something more lay underneath. If only it were as simple as stretching my hand out and wiping away the condensation to see the man beneath. If only he’d let me in, maybe it would be that easy. Maybe then my touch could finally bring him into focus.
But it wasn’t that simple. Instead, all I could hope for was a message or a missed call. I dressed and settled back on the couch to power up my cell.
There was nothing.
So I sent one to him: Come home.
When I didn’t have a response after five minutes, I considered sending another. He was at work. I shouldn’t bother him. But I was supposed to be important. If he still cared at all, he’d answer me.
I battled with myself over it. In my past, obsessive texting and calling had been my biggest weakness. For more than a year after I started therapy, I didn’t even allow myself to have a phone. The temptation was too great. In the height of my obsessing, I could fill a voicemail box within an hour. Paul Kresh had to change his number after I texted him nonstop for three days straight.
Even with Hudson, I carefully weighed each message I sent him. I didn’t send everything I was thinking. It was hard, but I had managed to stay in control.
Today, I didn’t give a fuck about control.
I typed a new message: Are you going to avoid me now?
Five minutes later, I sent again: The least you can do is talk to me.
I sent several more, delaying each by a span of three to five minutes:
You said I was everything to you.
Talk to me.
I won’t ask about it if you don’t want to.
This isn’t fair. Shouldn’t I be the one who’s mad?
I was about to start another when my phone vibrated in my hand with a received text. It was from him: I’m not mad. I’m not avoiding you. I don’t know what to say.
Hudson at a loss for words was the craziest thing I’d heard in the last two days. He always knew what to say, always knew what to do. If our separation had him so out of character, why were we apart?
My fingers could barely enter a response fast enough. Don’t say anything. Just come home.
I can’t. Not yet. We need time.
I had hoped the new morning would bring clarity. But I still wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be doing with the time that he insisted we needed. I don’t need time. I need you.
We’ll talk later.
You don’t understand. I have to talk now. I’ll keep texting you. I can’t help myself.
And I’ll read every one.
I almost smiled at his last message. After all the years of being ignored and called crazy, Hudson embraced my whacked out tendencies.
But one sweet little text wasn’t enough to erase the hollow ache in my chest. I started to type out another message.
Then I stopped myself.
What the hell was I doing? Never mind old habits and what was healthy and what wasn’t—why was I chasing after this man so desperately when he’d already clearly indicated it would have no effect on him? Besides, he’d said over and over that he liked my obsessing over him. It made him feel loved.
Well, fuck that.
If Hudson wanted to feel loved, he could come home and work things out. Yes, we had troubled pasts and were inexperienced with relationships. Still, sooner or later we had to grow up and take responsibility for our actions. More than anything in the world, I wanted to do that with Hudson. But if he wasn’t ready, it didn’t matter how much I loved him. I couldn’t be the only one fighting. He had to fight too.